R amon flicks his wrist and a spray of black ink lands on the back of Bernat’s hand. Bernat raises it close to Ramon’s cheek as if to wipe it off on his skin. Ramon shrugs. “I will only look more the scholar with ink over my cheek.”
Bernat scrunches up his nose. “No point then.” He dabs his hand on a stained linen cloth.
Ramon abandons his lighthearted tone. “You must teach me.”
“You’re sullen today” Bernat observes.
It is the first time in his life he has known jealousy and it is like lying on a bed of thorns — no matter which way you turn your skin is scratched and pricked. Bernat has mastered the letters of the Hebrew alphabet; to Ramon they are still black scribbles and scrawls that swim before his eyes and dance beneath his eyelids as he tries to sleep. They pierce his mind with their feet and crowns and he can rub his temples again and again without finding relief from the ache that has settled over his forehead.
